


Lifeline

by stilinskisoul



Series: Derek/Reader ficlets [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, F/M, Feels, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Sweet Derek, derek hale imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:37:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5834623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisoul/pseuds/stilinskisoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reader has AD, and Derek accidentally finds a bunch of missed calls/texts from her psychiatrist on her phone and, of course, Derek thinks that Reader is cheating on him. She explains, and cuteness ensues. (basically a bit dark-y with a sweet ending)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifeline

I figured out I have Anxiety Disorder about two years ago.

Out of those two years, I spent one contemplating whether I should get help or not. I thought about it for a long time, and eventually came to the conclusion that yes, probably it would be for the best if I visited a professional to seek their deliberate help. At first, I went to a psychologist with my issue who, right after our first session, told me that I should go to a psychiatrist instead, since my problem was not only mental, but physiological, too.

So, the psychologist contacted one of their friends, who has since became my psychiatrist whom I have been visiting ever since—that encompasses one year, two months and six days.

It took him nearly a month to first write a prescription for me. Understandably, he wanted to be sure about my diagnosis, albeit it had already been pretty clear, what with the stories I told him about my experiences that had made me suspect I had AD in the first place, and the fact that I had had several mild panic attacks before I got to meet him.

He also confirmed my assumptions about the AD being GAD—General Anxiety Disorder. At first, I suspected it was SAD—Social Anxiety Disorder—, but I not only had issues contacting people, but also staying at new places, ordering a take out, etc. Basically, I had hardship doing anything that is as easy for other, normal people as one multiply one. And that is what sets people with AD off from others—the fact that these ordinary things are serious matters for them that they have to face everyday and stress them out immensely.

So much in fact, that it can result in them producing physiological reactions, such as burning stomach, fatigue, palpitations, muscle tension, hypervigilance, insomnia, sweating and so on. One of my most prominent symptoms were when my mother thought I had nephritis, whereas it was just me stressing over staying at an unknown place—it was so bad that I literally couldn’t get up nor move and due to the intense pain, I had hardship breathing.

The other one was when one of my acquaintance proceeded to introduce me to his circle of friends—three minutes before meeting them, I had started having a mild panic attack. During the introduction, the only thing I could focus on was to even out my breathing and make sure they wouldn’t notice my elevated heartbeat nor the fact that I was nearly hyperventilating. I only began to calm down after about forty minutes when we left the park.

Just like in those situations, I had to face physical problems after having moved to Beacon Hills—I initially had trouble sleeping for nearly three weeks, and my panic attacks were back. Hence, the number of my visits at my psychiatrist increased, despite the fact that now it takes me an hour-long-drive to meet him, and with his help, I could overcome my anxiety faster than I could have alone.

I’ve been living here for seven months, and have been in a wonderfully satisfying relationship with one Derek Hale for four months. Although I have never told him about my disorder, he has always been extremely supportive whenever he sensed that something was off with me—he always takes my hand then, to rub soothing circles into my skin with his thumb and to occasionally massage my knuckles. It never ceases to calm me down.

He clued me in to the supernatural two and a half months ago, saying, ‘At first I wanted to wait, but then I decided otherwise, because I’m afraid that if I grow too attached to you over time and tell you the truth too late, and you decide to leave me after that, I. . . couldn’t handle that. So if I have to loose you, I’d rather do that now, not after years of being together.’

I didn’t leave him.

Right now I’m staying over at his place. I’m still not entirely comfortable at his, but I have already talked about it with my psychiatrist, and over those months, I have gotten more practised at easing myself relatively fast after arriving.

When I go back to him in his bedroom, towelling away the surplus water from my hair, I find him sitting at the middle of his king-size bed, frowning at a mobile in his lap— _my_ cell phone to be exact. My body immediately freezes at the doorway, and I can’t do anything else besides staring at him with what must be fear on my face. He doesn’t look up as his jaw falls down and his lips part on a quiet sentence.

“Who is this Gabriel?”

I swallow once, hard. He must have been trying to contact me either to rearrange my appointment or simply because he wants a heads-on about me to make sure I’m still doing fine and the medications work. My mind is running a mile a minute, trying to figure out what to say to Derek now, how to explain it to him that I’m not cheating on him without sharing the entire truth with him.

“He’s. . . he’s a friend of mine,” I say. I know he can hear my heartbeat, but that statement isn’t a lie, so the rhythm of my heart must be steady. He hums.

“He sent you dozens of texts, too,” Derek continues. I can feel that my shoulders are starting to tense up again, however, I try to act smoothly. I have gained practice over the years to act carefree even when my heart is this close to beat right out of my chest. Derek pats the sheets next to him softly. “Come here.” His voice sounds meek, but I know that behind all that gentleness, a command has been implied just fine.

I don’t resist him, figuring it will be for my own good if I don’t anger the impulsive beast in him. I slowly climb on the bed, laying the wet towel around my shoulders. I sit down in front of him so that I am face to face with him. My eyes are fixed on his thumb as it swipes across the touchscreen of the device, then he turns it and holds it up for me so that I can read the message Gabriel sent me.

_Could you come on Thursday instead of Wednesday? – G._

When I look away from the text, my eyes involuntarily meet Derek’s gaze. I feel the urge to look away instantly, which I do.

“Who is this?” he asks again. This time his tone sounds much more demanding than just a few moments before.

“I. . .” I shrink; I pull my legs up close to my chest, and lock my arms around them. “I should have told you already,” I start, tentative. My voice is extremely small. Even in my peripheral vision, I can see crystal clear the way Derek’s eyebrow arches.

“Tell me _what_?” Derek starts to sounds furious now. “That you’ve been cheating on me? For how long exactly?”

“No!” I protest automatically, my eyes finding his again. This time, he doesn’t let go of them.

“Then what is this about? Why are you supposed to meet this guy? It seems to me that you two have an arranged appointment already scheduled.”

“Yes, but. . . that’s not for the reason you think.”

Derek’s arm descends and drops my phone on the bed. The silence he maintains is presumably to urge me to keep speaking. I swallow once more by way of steeling myself. Now I have a rough idea of what it must have felt like for Derek to share his secrets with me. I take a deep, steadying breath before continuing my speech.

“I haven’t told you yet that I. . . have a disorder.”

Derek is still silent. He is all ears, just listening to me intently. My voice wavers.

“I didn’t want to tell you. I don’t like talking about it, nor my problems in general, because I know that others have their own issues to deal with and the last thing they need is my menial problems adding to their own,” I admit. “As for who Gabriel is, well. . . he is my psychiatrist. Has been for over a year now, in fact. The pills he told me to take, I take when I know you won’t see me doing it. I didn’t want you to know about it. I want to overcome this and live like a normal person. I wanted to keep it a secret because I was afraid you wouldn’t view me as the same person after.”

His hand comes up to touch my cheek. Since I averted my gaze from his during my speech at some point, now I relock it with his after the meek touch of his warm fingertips against my skin. His facial expression is gentle, as though I am so fragile that if he had a too stern look on, I would shatter to pieces. The next time he speaks, his tone is velvety smooth as it’s smoothing over my nerves.

“What condition are you talking about?”

“Oh,” I say, only now realizing that I haven’t shared the most important piece of information with him. “It’s Anxiety Disorder.”

His eyebrows furrow in concern. “When did you figure you have it?”

“Well,” I hum, thinking back at my past. I lick my lips. “The last straw was when, before an exam, I was so worked up and nervous that I literally chewed my lower lip until it was covered in blood. I haven’t even recognized it until others told me about it.”

The frown on Derek’s face deepens.

“Are you also prone to panic attacks?” he asks abruptly, startling me. Figuring there’s no point in trying to keep any part of my secret now, I succumb to his curiosity and settle for a nod instead of giving a verbal response. Derek’s face suddenly seems overwhelmed as though he was blaming himself for something. I quickly proceed to ask him about it.

“What’s the matter?”

“If I had known, back then. . . I should have realized that you were having an attack when your heart was racing so much in your chest and your breathing was laboured.”

“Der,” I coo gently. I stroke my palm over his sharp cheekbone. “You couldn’t have done anything. This is why I have Gabriel; he’s my psychiatrist, and that’s what psychiatrists are for,” I point out. He purses his lips as his nostrils flare, his pale green gaze boring into mine sternly. In the end, he lets out a deep breath, surrendering himself.

“You’re right,” he agrees. His hand comes up to fold over mine, still on his cheek. He gives it a small squeeze, barely-there. “Promise me you’ll tell me everything from now on, though. No more secrets, okay?” Faintly, the corners of my mouth tug up in a smile.

“Okay.”


End file.
